Noah swallowed the last spoonful of porridge and leaned back against the pillows. Warmth spread slowly through his stomach, easing the hollow ache inside. He was quiet for a while before murmuring, almost apologetically, "...I want to try getting up. Just to walk a little."
Asher's gaze lifted to him, eyes dark and unreadable. His voice was calm, flat. "You're sure?"
Noah nodded. He braced his hands against the mattress, moving carefully. The moment his feet touched the carpet, his knees buckled, his body swaying without warning.
Asher's expression darkened. His arm shot out, steady and firm, locking around Noah's waist. His voice was low, close to his ear. "Slow down."
Noah froze. The solid weight of that arm against him, the way he was held in place—it dragged him straight back to that night, the helplessness of being pinned down, unable to move. Instinct flared, urging him to shove the hand away. But his legs were trembling; if he broke free, he knew he'd collapse.
He hesitated, then lowered his eyes. He didn't push him off. He let that strength guide him forward.
Asher felt the resistance in his body, but didn't let go.
The balcony doors were open. Morning air slipped in, cool and faintly damp. Noah leaned against the railing, inhaling deeply, finally able to breathe without the weight pressing down on his chest. He tilted his head back, eyes closed, letting the wind brush against his face.
Silence stretched between them before he said quietly, "...You don't have to stay with me all the time."
Asher stood behind him, gaze fixed on his slim back. "You really think you can manage alone?"
Noah's lips pressed together. He couldn't answer. He knew perfectly well—if Asher hadn't caught him just now, he'd already be on the floor.
The air thickened, stagnant. Noah turned slightly, his voice softer this time. "I want to sit in the living room for a while."
Without a word, Asher shifted his hold, sliding down to Noah's wrist. His fingers closed lightly around it, guiding him step by step.
On the sofa, Noah sank down slowly, his breath uneven. He lifted a hand to press against his forehead.
Asher poured a glass of warm water and set it in front of him. "Drink."
Noah hesitated, then reached for it. Their fingers brushed—just a fleeting touch, but it seared through him, and he flinched. He lowered his head, drank the water quickly, hiding his expression.
The room fell into silence. Only the steady tick of the clock filled the space.
After a long pause, Noah looked up, voice cautious. "...Don't you have work? If you keep staying here with me... won't it affect you?"
His voice was still weak, barely louder than a breath, but the concern in it was genuine.
Asher leaned back at the far end of the sofa, his face unreadable, dismissive. "I already spoke to my agent. Filming can wait until you recover."
Noah stared at him, stunned.
The shoot... had been put on hold? Because of him?
He tried to sit straighter, but his body wasn't strong enough yet. The effort left him breathless. He looked at Asher, chest heavy with something he couldn't name. The weight wasn't something that could be brushed aside.
He bit his lip, his voice dry. "But... I can rest on my own. You don't need to delay your work for me."
Asher finally turned to him, eyes cold, flat. "It's not a delay."
Noah faltered, his chest tightening further.
He dropped his gaze, fingers worrying the edge of his shirt. His words slipped out in a whisper, almost inaudible. "...I'm not worth it."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Asher's brow furrowed. His eyes locked onto Noah's pale face.
He despised weakness, always had. But watching Noah like this, something twisted inside his chest, sharp and unsettling. His jaw clenched. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, rough. "Don't overthink it. I just—don't want anything happening to you before the contract ends."
Noah's eyes lifted sharply.
The contract.
So that was it. These days of careful attention, the constant presence—it was all because of a contract.
The flicker of warmth in his chest guttered out instantly, like a flame doused in water. He forced the corners of his lips up, as if to smile, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"...Right." His voice was faint. Dull.
Silence pressed down again.
Noah's lashes lowered, hiding his eyes. His fingers clenched tight around the fabric of his shirt until his knuckles went white. He tried to look calm, but his chest ached, sour and heavy, each breath dragging painfully.
Asher glanced at him, expression unchanging. He reached for the blanket on the sofa and draped it over Noah's lap. The movement was smooth, unhesitating—but cold.
Noah broke the silence again, voice tentative. "You really don't need to be on set? Won't the director be angry?"
Asher's gaze cut to him, dark and detached. His tone was even colder than before. "That's their problem."
He paused, his eyes fixed on Noah, devoid of softness. "All you need to do is get better. You understand the contract isn't over yet."
His voice dropped lower, every word heavy and deliberate. "I still need your body."
Noah went still, lips pressed tight, his silence heavier than any protest.
The room turned quiet again.
He sat there, eyes on the empty glass, his chest tangled and raw. That one word—contract—had stripped everything bare.
He knew now: Asher's care wasn't love. Wasn't worry. It was obligation. Nothing more.
The thought hollowed him out. The ache in his chest spread, tightening his throat, but he swallowed it down, holding it in.
He leaned back against the cushions, meaning only to rest his eyes. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, scattering faint shadows across his shoulder. His breathing evened out, the tension smoothing from his brow until, unknowingly, he drifted into sleep.
The living room was still. Only the wind and the clock ticked faintly.
Asher sat a short distance away, eyes never leaving the sleeping figure. Noah's face was calm in sleep, lashes fanning shadows across pale skin, breath light and steady.
After a long while, Asher rose and crossed the room, his steps soundless. He sat at the sofa's edge, close now. His hand lifted of its own accord, fingers brushing the curve of Noah's cheek. He traced the line of his jaw, the softness of skin warm against his palm.
His chest tightened, abruptly, violently.
He had seen more beautiful faces before—on set, at parties, everywhere. He had been surrounded by people throwing themselves at him, begging for attention, willing to give anything.
He had lived nights drowned in alcohol, bodies, indulgence. Desire was nothing new. Neither was excess.
But those people had never mattered. They were release. They were nothing.
Only this one—
Noah.
With him, he could never stay composed. That night of losing control, these quiet days of tending to him—it was always Noah who unbalanced him without effort.
Too dangerous.
All his life, there had been a wall inside him. Solid, unshakable, keeping the world out. He believed it would never crack.
But with Noah, fissures had begun to spread.
For the first time, fear settled in his chest. Fear of being swayed. Fear of losing control. Fear of becoming like everyone else—wanting, needing, vulnerable.
He couldn't allow it. The wall had to hold.
His hand froze where it rested, then pulled back abruptly, his palm curling tight, crushing the impulse down.
Asher shut his eyes, breathing deep, forcing the weakness away.
The room fell still once more.
And between them, the unseen rift stretched wider, pulling taut—impossible to sever completely, yet impossible to close.